


Oh Take Me Back to the Start

by mimosaeyes



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Baked Goods, F/M, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Gabriel, author shamelessly appropriates personal experiences for the purposes of fic, puns, there will be Disney references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimosaeyes/pseuds/mimosaeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the Urban Dictionary: a ‘meet cute’ is a scenario in which two individuals are brought together in some unlikely, zany, destined-to-fall-in-love-and-be-together-forever sort of way (the more unusual, the better).</p><p>Here is a series of AU meet cutes, in response to the Origins episodes that concluded season 1!<br/>1 - Adrinette, blood donation drive<br/>2 - vigilante!Ladynoir, laundry room<br/>3 - Adrinette, Nino's socks<br/>4 - DJWifi, headphones in the library<br/>5 - Adrinette, baker!Adrien and model!Marinette<br/>6 - Ladynoir, zombie apocalypse RPG<br/>7 - Max/Kim, newspaper colleagues<br/>8 - kid!Adrinette grow up neighbours<br/>9 -  DJWifi and Adrinette, ice skating double-date</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. love don't wait in line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thankyouforexisting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouforexisting/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrinette at a blood donation drive, Ladynoir-esque dynamic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from I Don't Know Why by Gavin James.
> 
> Work title from The Scientist by Coldplay.
> 
> _no choc. no it's not 'the blood fic'_

She’s brought her sketchbook along to work on some designs while waiting, but as it turns out she’s far too nervous to focus. Instead Marinette worries at the corners of the pages, watching a volunteer nurse finish up with another blood donor.  

“Croissant?”

The voice is friendly and when she turns toward the sound her heart may or may not skip a beat. Her first impression is of green eyes and golden hair and the smell of downright heavenly pastry. She came alone and this is the first time anyone here has spoken to her to do anything not strictly administrative, like ask her if she’s on any medication, or explain the blood screening test they had to perform beforehand.

The sketchbook falls to one side. Neither of them take much notice of it.

“You look like you could use a snack,” the boy says, giving her a shy smile and holding out a literal picnic basket of arrayed baked goods, complete with red and white tablecloth to keep in the moisture and warmth. “Trust me, it helps with the dizziness.”

Realising how he’s read the situation, she flushes and looks askance. “Thanks, but um. Actually, I haven’t donated yet.”

His brow furrows. “You look kind of pale,” he observes, setting his offered refreshments aside on a nearby table. “Everything okay?”

They’re complete strangers and it’s almost ridiculous to her how concerned he sounds for her. “I don’t like needles,” she blurts out, then immediately cringes. Could she be any more uncool?

“Outside of sewing, I mean,” she adds desperately.

Yes. Yes, she can be more uncool.

But his laughter, when it comes, isn’t mean like she’s expecting. It’s fond, almost, as if she’s just done the most endearing rather than awkward thing.

“Well then, you’re very brave, Miss…?”

Her brain does a double take at his out of place formality, which is almost redolent of some knight of old. “It’s just Marinette,” she says.

Distantly she’s aware that the nurse from earlier is approaching her station, but as if on cue her companion leans forward, nabbing her attention. His tone grave, he looks her dead in the eye and says, “Hello, Itsjust. I’m Adrien.”

“Oh my god, you’re such a dork,” is the first thing that comes to mind to say.

That’s it, she thinks. He has to draw the line somewhere with her awkward little outbursts. Only, if anything, the boy looks even more bemused. He cocks his head at her, kind of like a confused kitten.

“Thanks, I don’t get told that very often,” he says.

Just then the nurse clears her throat behind them. “Ready?” she asks, giving Marinette a winning smile that almost distracts her entirely, until she feels a shock of cold from an antiseptic swab at her left elbow.

Marinette yanks her arm away.

“Sorry!” she says almost immediately, but can’t seem to will the appendage back into position. She takes a deep breath. “Give me a moment?” she pleads.

“Rose, I think there’s someone here to see you,” Adrien pipes up helpfully, and with a look indicates the doorway to the hall that has been requisitioned for the blood donation drive. Marinette turns to see a wraith-like girl with black hair tinted purple at the ends, waving at them and holding up a takeaway bag.

The volunteer nurse flushes. “My shift ends in fifteen minutes, she didn’t need to get lunch!” She looks apologetically at Marinette, clearly itching to go over.

Like a benevolent princess, Marinette waves her off. “Oh, I can wait,” she says, casual as anything while desperately trying to send telepathetic thanks to the girl in the doorway. 

Rose deliberates a moment. “I’ll start you off first, how about that? And Adrien can wait with you, it’ll be good training for him,” she suggests, moving around to retrieve a new needle and tearing open the seal on the packaging. She makes some sort of signal at her friend, who responds with a thumbs-up and wanders back outside.

Marinette despairs.

Silently, she watches Rose tap expertly at her inner elbow, and obliges her in making a fist and squeezing. Rose applies a tourniquet to constrict the blood flow and make the vessels more prominent. 

She has steady hands, so the needle doesn’t shake, but Marinette is full of twitchy energy, watching in consternation and reminding herself that blood donation benefits lots of people. She’s going to put up with the tiniest pinprick and _save lives_. She can _do this_.

The world promptly goes a bit tunnel vision.

Just as the needle is about to sink into her skin, she almost loses her nerve, wavering for a second. But at that precise instant there comes a sudden warmth around her right hand, and a voice mutters, “It’s okay, don’t look,” and she’s burying her face instinctually into soft t-shirt fabric, breathing in the comforting smell of lavender detergent. An indeterminate amount of time passes in that limbo state. She’s very comfortable, it’s hard to keep track. 

“All done, looking good,” Rose reports, utterly chipper as she secures the needle in place. “How’s that feel?”

Without moving, Marinette mumbles, “Didn’t even feel it, are you sure it’s over?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Rose answers laughingly, withdrawing. As she walks away, she calls back over her shoulder, “You can release Adrien anytime you like, by the way.”

Many things happen all at once. Marinette jerks violently away from her soft wall which turns out to be _Adrien’s chest, oh no_ , broad and warm and possibly pretty muscled, if her cheek is any reliable sensor. At the same time, Adrien steadies her, cautioning, “Careful! Rose has expert skills but you look likely to bruise, especially if you move the needle accidentally.”

And lastly, very belatedly, she realises she’s holding his hand.

Well, not so much holding as clinging onto for dear life. She relents and comes to a sort of equilibrium position, still rather inappropriately close to him considering that they’re barely even acquainted, but no longer smushing her face up against him at least. Then she disciplines herself to relax her grip, restoring the boy’s circulation. He wiggles his fingers at her, grinning.

“I look likely to bruise?” she asks, almost defensively.

He raises an eyebrow at her like he can’t believe that’s what she’s chosen to zero in on, but also like he’s kind of delighted about it. “Are you ever going to say something that doesn’t surprise me?” 

“Well I don’t know. Why don’t you keep talking to me and find out?” 

Her eyes widen at her own line. Oh no. Oh no, is she… is she _flirting_ with him? Not that she doesn’t mean it, _if_ she is, it’s just — Alya told her once that she may have accidentally led Nathanael on a bit after their one and only pseudo-date. Amid her spluttering and protestations, her best friend gave her a stern lecture to the effect that her big blue eyes are actually really twinkly and enchanting when she smiles, and also apparently she has a look of utter sin that she gives unconsciously sometimes. Which is strange, because the rest of the time she’s the living embodiment of a shrinking violet. 

Before Adrien can recover from being briefly taken aback, she adds, in a more characteristically fumbling way, “I mean, seriously, keep talking to me, it makes for a great distraction.”

“You were smooth for like a full two seconds there, you know,” Adrien informs her, the corners of his lips threatening to lift into a grin. “But of course, if the Lady so desires, I shall endeavour to entertain.” 

There it is again, his courtly manner like they’re living in medieval times. Strangely enough it sends a flutter through her gut. But “Ugh, quit teasing me,” she says, shoving ineffectually at him. Ineffectually, because he seems to be — just slightly — refusing to let go of her hand. 

“Oh, I would never give you _teas_ right after a blood donation. That’s a diuretic! However,” and this is where he levels that intense gaze upon her again, even as she groans at his pun, “my shift ends at lunchtime too, whereupon I would be glad to buy you a _mock_ accino.”

Marinette just about loses it. 

“You pun,” she says. “Oh, boy, just when I was thinking, ‘Wow, looks like my type is hot caring dorks with nice smelling shirts and croissants’ — you pun. Not gonna lie, that’s almost a deal-breaker.”

“Aww, is it?” Adrien fires back at once, really getting into the swing of things now. How did she ever think him shy and proper and chivalrous? “How about this to  _sweeten_ the deal — you get a _beverage from_ me, and _leverage over_ me?” 

She may or may not be doing the gaping fish-mouth thing. “Do you flirt this outrageously with all the girls who go swooning when they donate blood?” 

“Only if they’re swooning over me. Also, looks like you’re about done there, that was quick,” Adrien tells her, peering over the side at the blood bag. He looks actually serious for a moment, but then the mischief returns to his expression. “Did I get your heart racing?” 

“You’re about to get my blood boiling with all these lines,” she tells him, petering out as he pulls his hand out of hers and comes round to her left side. The sudden coolness of the air makes her miss his warmth instantly. 

She glances over at Rose in the distance, then down at her inner elbow. Suddenly her apprehension comes slamming back into her, full force. She hasn’t even noticed the needle in her arm all this time. Just as promised, he’s distracted her completely from the source of her nerves. 

“Ahh,” Marinette says articulately. “Ahh, could you take the needle out? Like now. Please?” 

“I’ll get Rose—” he’s startled into saying, but she repeats, “Now please.”

He flashes her a quick smile even as he gets to work, with efficient but controlled motions that set her a little more at ease in and of themselves. “Well, I _am_ in training. Do you trust me?”

“You’re not Aladdin, this is not a Disney movie,” she moans, glancing down in dread at the needle and then immediately closing her eyes. She’s panicking, she knows this, otherwise he wouldn’t be stepping in like this when he’s not officially qualified yet.

“I’m going to take it as a good sign that you still have the presence of mind to get that reference,” Adrien says. “But in all seriousness, please don’t panic.” 

She opens her eyes to snark something back at him, but his look of total sincerity stops her. “Trust me,” he says, touching a hand briefly to her shoulder.

She feels just a little twinge this time, probably because she’s got nothing to distract and annoy her (and no hand to hold, but that’s besides the point, of course). Adrien is even gentler than Rose, and he holds a cotton ball to her arm while allowing her to pick a patterned strip bandage out of a little drawer.

“Ladybugs,” he notes once she makes her choice, and wraps it firmly around her arm. “With any luck you won’t bruise too badly.”

That reminds her — “Why am I likely to bruise?” 

Adrien fusses with her bandage, pressing his thumb firmly at the puncture site. “You’ve got some of the most delicate veins I’ve seen,” he answers absently. “Keep pressure on this.” 

He’s so caring and kind in that moment, totally absorbed, that she watches him for a few self-indulgent seconds before reaching over and decisively putting her hand over his. “Now that,” she tells him, “is how you get a girl to agree to a coffee.”

He gapes at her.

“Cheesy lines don’t work on you, puns don’t work on you, but I compliment your _blood vessel structure_ and that settles it?”

“Yup,” she confirms, even though that’s not the point at all.

Adrien shakes his head at her. “You’re a wonder, you know that?”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she says playfully, nudging him.

“Me? I just spent the last ten minutes thinking in the back of my mind, ‘Oh god, is this banter? Are we bantering, we’re bantering. I think I might love this girl.’ in an incoherent mess.” 

“We can be incoherent messes together,” she suggests, and he starts, green eyes wide as they meet her blue ones. He feigns like he’s considering it. 

“I might take you up on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically this is a fluff-only zone where I will come to escape the angst of the other fic I’m writing for this fandom. Which is shaking up to be a whopper, _assuming I ever actually write it._
> 
> Trying out a different style, less dense and more light than usual — please let me know if it works out for you.
> 
> Suggestions/prompts? Leave them in the comments below, or in [my tumblr askbox](http://www.mimosaeyes.tumblr.com/ask)!


	2. the innocent way (we were breaking all the rules)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vigilante!Ladynoir, and the epic showdown against the top dryer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Indian Summer by Tyler Hilton.

She’s going to have to jump.

Which sounds much more dramatic than it is, because this entire situation is ridiculous but so unfortunately relatable that there’s probably a Reddit post about it somewhere in the recesses of the internet.

Marinette chews her lip, glancing first down at the half-filled basket at her feet, then up at the top dryer into which half an hour ago, she loaded her wet laundry fresh out of the washing machine. Well, ‘loaded’ is a flexible word. What actually went down was more along the lines of _flinging her balled-up socks and even her superhero costume_ in through the open hatch. Very dignified, that. Thankfully none of her neighbours walked in on the sight of her clothes sailing through the air.

Also, thankfully she has a good throwing arm. The amateur grapple-hook she ordered online and modified slightly to suit her stature is designed so that it functions basically like a yo-yo, and it has trained up her muscles well over the past few months of her vigilante activities in Paris.

Her neck is literally cramping up where she’s craning it. “I bet Batman never has to faceoff with a dryer,” she mutters under her breath, drifting over to the little whiteboard on the wall, where residents of the apartment block leave their phone numbers to be reminded if they forget to collect their laundry. Selecting a red marker from the box, she leans in to write a plea for everyone to please leave the bottom dryers free if they can reach the top ones. 

There’s a new message in green on the board, which is a rarity, and she pauses to read it: a rather sheepish request for everyone to please close the top dryer doors, because walking into them is no fun. It’s signed with a simple, anonymous ‘A’.

She very nearly signs off with the halved circle and five dots that is Ladybug’s insignia, and scrambles to erase it and replace it with an ‘M’. No one needs to know who the unfortunate duo of the building are.

People don’t frequently come down here to do their laundry — apparently, they do just frequently enough to inconvenience her on the dryers issue. The basement is draughty and many people just hang their clothes up to dry. She would do the same, but she needs the suit for tonight’s patrol, in just a few hours’ time, and she _did_ have to wash it, it gets absolutely _rank_  the morning after she gets caught in the rain. 

Setting the marker back, she turns, only to startle in surprise. There’s a boy, blonde, unassuming, and _offensively tall_ , just about to start loading his laundry into _her_ dryer. It must have looked empty and not in use, with the door closed.

“Um!” she says, or more accurately, squeaks.

He jumps, looks at her with wide eyes. “What?”

“I, uh, I’ve still got some laundry in there,” she explains, dashing over to pull it out. She gets flustered when she’s caught off guard, and this is another such instance. Because it becomes instantly clear that she’s far too short to be rooting around in the bottom of the dryer for the last few articles of her clothing — including, she realises with a sinking feeling, _her supersuit_.

“Here, let me,” the boy suggests helpfully, stepping forward again— 

—right smack into the open door of the top dryer. 

“Oh god, are you okay?” she exclaims, forgetting about the laundry temporarily and looking with concern at his forehead, where there’s already a small red mark.

“Stunned by your beauty, but otherwise I’m just _purr_ -fect,” he mutters, prodding the area gingerly. Then he does a double take at his own words, and proceeds to start looking very confused. 

“Did you just get a concussion," she says in disbelief, “from a dryer door. Because you’re talking nonsense.”

He’s still glumly fussing with the soon-to-be bruise on his forehead, and it makes her snap, suddenly bossy in a way that is all Ladybug, “Don’t _poke_ it, of course it’ll hurt if you jab at it!”

It’s her turn to do a double take. He stares at her with a raised eyebrow, but recovers first.

“Anyway,” he says, with the air of someone very much desiring to sidestep the awkwardness, “I can’t let myself be defeated by a dryer—” And he starts to reach in through the open hatch.

“No!” she yelps, scrambling to stop him. He gives her a quizzical look and holds up both hands where she can see them, taking a step back as he does to give her space.

“I mean. I’m good, I can do this,” she insists, and standing on the tips of her toes, she stretches as far as she can. By pressing her body up against the bottom dryer, she can get her elbow over the edge of the hatch and grope around for her clothes.

Her fingers grasp the unmistakable material of her costume. Part spandex, part polymer composite, making it was a challenge to her skills both as a seamstress and as an aspiring fashion designer. 

(Does the costume making and the vertical deficiency make her Edna Mode? After all, she _is_ quite vehemently against capes. Short of aerodynamic considerations, they’re impractical as all get out. Although she _might_ consider a short one to fit the ladybug theme and work like a parachute, slowing the falls she sometimes takes. Ooh! It might work for a Superhero Landing. You know the one. Showy and gratuitous but undeniably badass.) 

Starting to hum to herself at the always-appealing idea of making modifications to her suit, she pulls the costume out of the dryer with a flourish, bringing two shirts and a flouncy skirt down with it. One of the shirts ends up over her head and though her whole field of vision is suddenly obscured, she can hear the stranger burst out laughing.

Wearing an awkward grin, she lifts the edge of the shirt up and peers up at him from underneath it. Somehow his chuckling is good-natured rather than mean, like he’s laughing with her, at how ridiculous the whole situation is, rather than at her. 

But as his laughter peters out, his gaze falls to the red suit with black spots that she’s clutching onto, and suddenly he goes utterly still. 

“Bugaboo?” he says in amazement.

She’s floored and appalled at herself all at once for being so careless. “Oh, this?” she says, trying to sound casual as she holds up the incriminating one-piece. At least she scrambles for an explanation only for a second. “Yeah, uh, I cosplay as Ladybug sometimes. I’m a huge, um. Fan. Of hers.”

“Oh,” he says, and looks… almost crestfallen. Which, sure, it would be nice to meet your vigilante idol, as Ladybug seems to be for him, but it doesn’t warrant such disappointment, does it? She almost feels bad for making him rescind his correct identification of her.

“Well, it’s a very good replica,” the boy tells her, and seems to shake himself. He blinks rapidly a few times, and she may or may not be staring at his eyes, which are a strangely familiar shade of green. Slowly, he bends to pick up his laundry and load it after all.

“Um. I’ll, I’ll see you around, then,” Marinette says, dropping her costume into her laundry basket. She picks it up and resting it against her hip, starts to make the long trip back upstairs. She has work in the morning, and wants to get a couple more things done before patrol tonight — that partner of hers always teases her about having had a hot date if she’s late to their usual meeting place.

_Wait a minute._  

“What did you call me just now?!” she practically screeches at him, whipping around to face him again.

And that’s when she sees it. She’s standing in the doorway but it’s unmistakable even from that distance. Black and shiny and sinfully figure-hugging — this blonde boy, who apparently lives in _the same apartment block as her, really_ what _are the chances_ , is loading Chat Noir’s vigilante outfit into the dryer. Because they _both_ got caught in the rain last night. 

She knows every seam of that outfit, because she made it for him herself after meeting him on the midnight streets of Paris and poking fun at his first attempt. As Ladybug, she handed him the business card of Marinette Dupain-Cheng and recommended he contact her.

(Okay, the similarity to Edna Mode is real.)

All this flashes through her mind in a split second, together with the lightning flash of her initial realisation that nobody except Chat Noir himself would have called her Bugaboo. That’s _his_ name for her, which means—

—and he must see the belated recognition in her eyes, because he glances between his suit and her and, utterly in shock now, for the third time in as many minutes, croaks out, “So... I’m guessing you’re not a cosplayer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, it's their first meeting in civilian identities, _so_.
> 
> Important survey! Next chapter contains a (classy?) double entendre predicated on assumed knowledge about the importance of condoms. Should I bump the rating for that one-liner?
> 
> Important announcement! I'm swamped with work and will therefore be on writing hiatus till 15 April. If you see an update before then, I've made Bad Life Decisions. Don't encourage me. *squinty eyes*


	3. I know where you're gonna go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nino's socks are the best wingmen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Lights Down Low by MAX.
> 
> Rebloggable doodle fanart [here](http://autumn-en.tumblr.com/post/143017557787/mimosaeyes-doodle-of-oh-take-me-back-to-the), by the amazing [cookiekrio](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiekrio/pseuds/cookiekrio).

There is a sock over the door handle, and Marinette is in a state of crisis.

These two phenomena are more closely related than initially apparent. 

See, when they applied to their dormitory for a double room together, Alya joked that on top of their current Best Friends Code, they now needed a Roommates Code, and that included agreeing on some sign they could leave so that the other person wouldn’t walk in on anything too psychologically scarring. They had both been single all their lives, with the exception of several unrequited crushes on Alya, and Marinette’s one maybe-date-maybe-not with Nathanaël, and had concluded that they were destined to be platonic life partners and spinsters in solidarity. At least they had alliteration as a solace in their last years. So Marinette laughed and suggested “maybe a sock, or something” on the door handle.

(“It’ll also be a handy reminder to always use another kind of sock,” Alya said, waggling her eyebrows at her best friend, who promptly threw a pillow at her with an appalled cry.)

It was all in good humour, you know? And although she’s known for years that once they hit college together every boy would be all over Alya’s intelligence and passion and, well, voluptuousness, knowing that in theory doesn’t make it any less of a shock that  _there is a sock on the door handle_.

“Oh, there you are,” comes a relieved voice from behind her, and Marinette turns toward the sound at the same time as a boy reaches around her and plucks the sock from the door handle. Using a pair of forceps, of all things, which look to have been appropriated from one of the university’s science laboratories.

She stares. He’s holding a matching set, now, the first sock in a transparent ziplock bag like he’s in forensics or something. Grey with light blue musical notes on them, and a meticulously hand-sewn N on each arch.

“Socks,” she says dumbly.

“Socks,” he agrees, nodding gravely.

Marinette tilts her chin up from the socks to raise an eyebrow at him. He… looks like a mad scientist, if she’s being honest. Cute, but with a definite Einsteinian eccentricity about him, with hair like ruffled golden feathers, sticking up in kinks and snarls, and large squarish black glasses barely hanging onto his face.

Without thinking about it, she nudges them safely up the bridge of his nose — she has to briefly tiptoe to do it, and she’s rocking back onto her heels before she realises what she’s done and freezes. 

“Glasses,” he says, stunned.

“Glasses,” she confirms.

They’re never going to get very far on the conversation front at this rate, especially if they keep holding each other’s gaze. But his eyes are a green so bright they almost look feverish at this hour, and it’s with great reluctance that she tears her gaze away, dropping it back down to her hands. Inexplicably, she’s toying with the strap of her book bag. 

He gestures vaguely with a sock. “I needed them to look for this.” He flushes. “Don’t ask, it’s just some stupid—”

“—Roommates Code?” she suggests, and he looks only briefly surprised. Then a smile breaks out over his face and _oh._ Oh, it’s like the sun coming up early when it’s only somewhere around one in the morning. It’s _radiant_. This science geek boy could probably measure the intensity of light that his smile gives off on a photometer.

“Yeah,” the boy says, and drops the second sock into his ziplock bag. Then he produces, seemingly from thin air, an actual alcohol-soaked cotton ball which he swabs the doorknob with, neat and efficient. “I am _so_ sorry, this is _rank_.”

Suddenly this all seems too routine, even if well-meaning. “Wait, does your— does your roommate do this a lot?” She breaks off, blushing as she struggles with possible euphemisms. But Alya needs to be warned if this guy is some player, no matter how much of a sunshine boy his roommate is. “Does he, um, visit girl’s rooms a lot, at night?” 

Her companion blinks slowly at her and then starts cackling. “Oh — no. Nino’s not like that, why would you think that?” Suddenly he looks embarrassed again, even more so than before. “I’m kind of absentminded, and I keep leaving my keys in my lab coat, so if Nino isn’t in our room to let me in, he texts me a clue to where he’s left his copy. Socks,” he repeats, waving the bag.

Marinette’s brow furrows. “Isn’t that kind of inefficient?”

He crinkles his nose. “I think he’s trying to train me? And maybe troll me, just a little. Anyway… I guess I’ll be seeing you!” Bending to fish a key from between Nino’s shoes, which are placed neatly just outside the door, he turns to leave.

“Wait, where am I supposed to go?" 

He turns back, glancing between her and the door. “Uh. Isn’t that your room?” 

She’s beginning to look exasperated, she can feel it. “I can’t go in there!” she hisses at him.

“Why not?”

She gestures wildly with both arms. “ _Socks!_ ”

Which, really, seems like it would be the highlight of her night, yelling about basic apparel to someone who’s still practically a stranger. But then the boy narrows his eyes and looks more thoughtfully, this time, between her and the door. The penny is starting to drop. “I think,” he says slowly, “that socks mean something very different to you and your roommate than they do to me and my roommate.” 

He directs a questioning look at her after pronouncing this hypothesis, and her silence all but confirms it.

“Oh god why,” he breathes, and starts beckoning her over urgently, as if indicating that they should keep their distance, like there’s some invisible safety zone they need to retreat to. Marinette inches over to his side, all the while watching the door in identical, irrational wariness.

“What do we do now?” she stage-whispers. When he doesn’t respond after a long moment, she flicks her gaze over to him and sees him biting his bottom lip contemplatively.

He sounds almost grudging, that’s how hesitantly he makes his proposal. “You... _could_ come over to our room for now. Take my bed. I wouldn’t, uh, subject you to Nino’s.” 

As her eyes widen, the boy hurries to add, “Nothing skeevy, I’ll even just — go sleep on a study bench or something, for tonight. You’d have the room to yourself, and you can have Nino’s key, and — and lock it from the inside.” 

The thought of a bed to pass out on for a few blissful hours of much-needed sleep is extremely tempting, to say the least. Leaving Alya in the library studying earlier in the day, she fled the stiflingly quiet and sleepy atmosphere to go to her favourite spot for working on her designs portfolio. She’s already spent long and tiring hours today sitting on a hard bench, eventually pulling out her class notes to get some revision done.

Nevertheless, she can’t possibly accept his offer. Suddenly animated as she mentally dares her body to protest, she suggests, “Or I could just sit outside. Right here,” and casts about for a less gross patch of floor. Maybe if she leans her head back against the wall and hugs her book bag, she can catch forty winks.

Set on this plan, Marinette plops herself down on the choicest bit of corridor to the side of her room door, wriggling a little so her neck isn’t in an awkward position. She stretches out her legs in front of her, wincing only a little at what the floor must be doing to her dark grey culottes. 

She’s almost settled in when she hears his little noise of exasperation — which, as it turns out, is strangely and rather inappropriately endearing.

He doesn’t contest her decision, though. Instead, this nutty science major with golden _everything_ just makes a moue and mutters something like, “Okay,” to himself, before walking over and sitting himself down next to her. He’s placed himself close enough that she can feel the warmth coming off of him: he must have been searching most of the block for Nino’s socks, climbing up stairs and running around, all in a large woollen pullover.

“What are you doing?”

He holds up the ziplock bag containing Nino’s socks as he answers. Only it’s not really an answer. “I think we’ve gotten off slightly  _on the wrong foot_ , don’t you agree? Let’s start over, my name’s Adrien.”

The socks, together with the downright mischievous grin on his face, make her notice the pun in his first sentence, and she promptly lets out a good-humoured groan and a single peal of laughter.

“You aren’t going to be doing that all night, are you?”

The grin falters and dims a little. “I can… _not_ , if you’d prefer,” he starts to say, suddenly looking uncertain. His fingers curl around the ziplock bag.

“Hey, no,” Marinette stops him, and puts her hand over his. When he looks up at her, she makes sure to look him dead in the eye and say, “I liked it. In fact, in terms of sense of humour I guess you could say... we’re a _match_?”

His eyes go wide and thrilled. “Like, a match made in heaven,” he probes.

She shrugs, indicating Nino’s socks. “More likely China, but sure.” 

* * *

When Alya and Nino emerge weary and unsuspecting from a three hour long exchange of comic book trivia, they find their roommates asleep in the corridor, Marinette’s head pillowed on Adrien’s shoulder and a pair of ziplocked socks sitting to one side. His pullover is carefully tucked around her shoulders, and her sketchbook of design ideas is open over both their laps where she was showing him her work to while away the time.

They take pictures, gleefully while stifling their laughter, before waking them up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to post a bonus chapter about how Alya and Nino met in this AU — any takers? Also, I promise an Adrien POV chapter is coming soon (for matchaball’s prompt!), Marinette focalisation just tends to carry over as default from the show.
> 
> I am only semi-off writing hiatus until after my finals end on 27 April, whereupon I shall resume my more ambitious projects :)


	4. won't you be my livewire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't take a journalist to see that Headphones is a bit of a goofball.
> 
> Being a DJWifi companion chapter to "I know where you're gonna go".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Livewire by Oh Wonder.
> 
> Still open to suggestions, although I apparently take _forever_ to post fills because a) I want to do justice to your idea, and b) I have chapters queued. Vague and/or random prompts preferred, and I reserve the right to not bash my head repeatedly against the wall trying to write a prompt.

Alya’s eye starts twitching in irritation at the fourth consecutive chime of the phone alarm from somewhere among the closed stacks. It’s quiet, obviously meant to rouse someone who has settled comfortably into the all too ergonomic chairs of the university library, and dozed off. That sort of thing happens more and more as finals approach and people set up camp in study spaces that will help them feel more productive than they actually are.

But the ringtone persists, retreating for a brief pause during which she just has time to hope that the alarm has been turned off, and then inevitably repeating. By the seventh she’s actively casting about for the culprit, and by the eighth she’s out of her seat, striding through the bookshelves and working up a tirade.

The sound gets louder as she turns a corner and there’s the perpetrator, a tall, athletic-looking boy in a red hoodie pulled low over his eyes to block out the light, slouching back in his seat and pretty much dead to the world. Having covered several of his sports tournaments for the school newsletter, she recognises him instantly as the star of the university’s track team. Kim is loud and confident to the point of boastfulness. Really, the only thing that saves him from her scorn is his unlikely friendship with Max, a computer geek and math nerd from her numeracy class who can explain even the most complex regression models to her, clearly and simply. 

Alya marches right up and starts looking for Kim’s phone, which is still buzzing and chiming periodically on the table. She has to excavate it from underneath a pile of apparently freshly printed lecture notes, but when she finally has it in hand she holds it up triumphantly and jabs at the screen to stop the alarm.

Peace at last. She’s a superhero now, right? That felt downright heroic. Smiling to herself in satisfaction, Alya sets the phone down on the table — and freezes, staring at the screen in consternation. Now it’s started a countdown from 10:00 minutes. She must have accidentally hit the snooze button, and now she needs to unlock the phone to turn off the alarm. 

Kim shifts slightly in his sleep, muttering something about almonds. 

She pokes him sharply in the arm.

“Wha—? Max?” Kim says, blinking blearily up at her as he pulls back his hood. “No. _Alya_. What’s up?”

That’s unexpected. She didn’t think he would know, or remember, her name. Maybe he’s seen it in the newsletter. After all, she’s quite a prolific student correspondent for it. But never mind. Shaking herself, Alya patiently explains, “Your phone’s been going off. Nap time’s over, back to studying.” If there’s a hint of sympathy in her voice, it’s only because superheroes always care about the wellbeing of others, even their opponents-turned-civilians.

Kim just groans softly and burrows back underneath his hoodie. “I’ll get back to it when Max gets here for study group.” His voice is muffled by the thick fabric.

“Well, at least turn your alarm off!” Alya says, poking him in the arm again. The boy only makes a disgruntled noise and starts whiffling softly, breaths already deepening into the rhythm of sleep.

Throwing her arms up in the air in exasperation, Alya stalks away. She refuses to give up the table she and Marinette arrived early at the library in order to reserve. She is going to stay here and find some way around less than considerate users of the study space. She—

—is seriously having the worst day right now, because in the chair opposite her own, where Marinette was earlier on until she declared she needed to go to her inspiration place to work on her design portfolio, sits a boy with orange and black headphones, bopping his head along to... whatever he’s listening to. He’s so earnest about it while he taps at his laptop keyboard that his entire body seems to vibrate. 

He doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to her, however, and since she did write an opinion piece in the newsletter calling for people to be nicer about sharing tables at the library so as to optimise seating capacity, it would be hypocritical of her to chase him away, or be rude to him. So instead she flashes him a quick smile, which he answers with a casual wave of his hand and a nod, and then sits down.

They work quietly together for a while. She makes some actual progress on her research into comic book publishing history. If she manages to wrangle a solid thesis statement out of this, she might be able to earn extra credit in her favourite course on print media.

Whatever Headphones is doing, it seems to involve a lot of repetition too. He abuses the space bar a lot, and leans in close to his laptop screen, squinting at it while fussing at the trackpad. Finally she can’t take it anymore and turns to her bag, from which she extracts a USB mouse. She slides the computer accessory across the table to him.

Headphones stops what he’s doing and just blinks at her for a moment. He blushes and ducks his face, then looks up at her again and in a way that she would almost consider shy — except that makes no sense — mouths the word, “Thanks.”

Presumably because lip-reading is hardly reliable, though, he also performs an exaggerated series of gestures to express his gratitude. He starts with two thumbs up and the largest grin ever, then alternates between that and pointing at the mouse. Then he picks up the mouse and plugs it into his laptop’s USB port. He wiggles the mouse around a little across the table, and puts some papers under it to avoid making too much noise. A few moments later, presumably when his computer registers the mouse and moves the cursor accordingly, he gives a pleased though muted clap, looking right at her, then at his screen, then back at her.

It doesn’t take a journalist to see that Headphones is a bit of a goofball.

Alya gives him a tentative, single thumbs up. He grins at her again. They return to quiet individual work.

And then Kim’s alarm goes off again.

Immediately she’s back to her original state of irritation, only this time it’s even more grating to her nerves, because if she goes back there she risks overstepping the boundary between being naturally nosy and confrontational — ahem, _proactive_ — and actually appearing like a bully. Alya’s never been the type to think, _someone else will handle it_ , but this time the circumstances seem to be forcing her to resign herself to apparent passivity. 

Outwardly, of course, she’s just frowning more and biting her lip with her nose still buried in a book. Sighing as the alarm keeps sounding, she sets the book aside. For lack of anything better to do, she stares into the middle distance — basically, she stares at Headphones. 

Hmm, _headphones_ … With them on, he can’t even hear the alarm. Alya bends to start rooting around in her bag for her earbuds. She doesn’t use them often — the world is too bursting with stories for her to miss the chance to inadvertently but not unwillingly eavesdrop on conversations in passing — but they’re probably around here somewhere…

But she gets to the bottom of her bag and the earbuds are still a no-show. Giving a displeased look, she gives in and goes back to staring at her book. Maybe if she just concentrates really hard on the text, she’ll be able to tune out the sound of Kim’s alarm. Oh, why hasn’t anyone gone over to do something about it yet?

There’s the sound of someone clearing their throat. She glances up to see that Headphones has slid his trademark headphones down around his neck, and is looking at her inquisitively. 

She tilts her head in the general direction of the still-ringing alarm. Headphones gets wide-eyed in comprehension, and then dives down into his bag and pulls out his own pair of earbuds, which he slides over to her across the table.

They haven’t said a word to each other yet but this really seems to be working out. Alya shoots him a grateful look and picks up the earbuds. Instead of pulling out her laptop to listen to her favourite movie soundtrack, though, she deliberates only a moment, and then gets up and walks around the table, taking her book with her.

Headphones raises an eyebrow at her as she sits down on the chair next to him, but then in a sudden burst of clarity he seems to understand her intention. Tentatively, he pulls his headphones out of the audio jack, allowing her to replace them with the earbuds, and offer one side to him. 

She can see the digital music composition suite that he has open now. The track looks largely fleshed out already, all the instruments and bass and synthesisers in place, and the file name includes the word ‘Final’ after a series of numbers and letters that must be part of some idiosyncratic naming system. He’s really serious about his mixes, it seems.

Looking at her once more as if for confirmation, Headphones presses play, letting her listen to what he’s crafted.

Alya scoots her chair a little closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing this pairing, and Alya’s POV! Hope it turned out in character ^-^ Nino’s exaggerated gestures are totally Adrien’s influence.


	5. the current has us now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baker!Adrien and Model!Marinette AU. (first?) Fill for [matchaball](http://archiveofourown.org/users/matchaball/works)’s prompt, “coded messages”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Who Knows Who Cares by The Local Natives.  
> Mood music: Blossom by Noah Gunderson.

She comes in on Tuesday mornings with flushed cheeks and overlapping breaths, like a sakura mille crêpe. 

 

That metaphor got away from him. It sounded better in his head — a lot of the things he says about her, sound better in his head. One time he told Nino about this girl he’s been too shy to talk to despite her having become, over the course of a few weeks, a pretty regular customer at the bakery. His best friend watched him silently for a moment, then patted his shoulder as if to say, _bro, you’ve got it so bad I don’t even have it in me to rib you about it._

But the bell over the door is twinkling like a giggle and this girl in pink skinny jeans and an oversize hoodie is shaking the melting snow out of her hair and Adrien can’t think, just gapes.

He prepared for this. He woke up this morning and gave himself a pep talk in the mirror before heading down to start on the breakfast rolls and the fruit tarts. But before he knows it he’s already missed his chance. The girl with hair so black it almost looks blue has already flashed him her customary shy smile and moved among the long tables laden with pastries to make her selections.

Never mind. There’s still his surprise. In part to avoid fumbling clumsily in front of her later, in part to stop himself from watching her move around the bakery, Adrien ducks his head and fiddles with the brown paper bag that he’s been keeping behind the counter for all the last fifteen minutes of his morning shift. She’s an early bird, this mysterious girl. Sometimes he gets the sense of a secretive air about her, from her anonymous clothing and preference to shop at off-peak hours. He thinks sometimes that she could be some sort of celebrity who likes privacy and has to take these measures to keep it. But that’s probably flattering himself and his humble little store. Even if her face does look awfully familiar... 

In his peripheral vision he sees her biting her lip and smiling fondly at the little bags of fortune cookies over in the display window. She looks mixed, maybe part Chinese — though he won’t assume — all almond eyes, button nose and wintery skin. They’re more commercial affectation than traditional heritage, but perhaps they remind her of some happy memory...

God, he just wishes he _knew_ her.

“Adri, is that the girl—?” comes his mother’s voice suddenly in a stage-whisper. As she steps around him to slide a fresh tray of croissants into the display window, he catches her characteristic faint whiff of honeysuckle.

She nudges him playfully with her hip, and her apron leaves a brush of white flour on his dark green polo shirt. “Oh my god, Mum, _shush_ ,” he says lightly, glancing over to make sure the girl hasn’t heard their brief exchange. Thankfully, she’s absorbed in a tower of rosewater sugar cookies. 

“You should talk to her,” his mother practically trills, but still in an undertone, as she retreats to the kitchen. 

He watches her go, and when he turns back to the counter, Sakura Mille Crêpe Girl is right there in front of him, and wow, if her hair is midnight blue, then her eyes are like the sky at noon — bright and clear. A soft gasp escapes him before he can help it, and her jaw drops just a little, looking at him in turn. 

Almost simultaneously, they each look askance, she rubbing abashedly at her elbow, and he dazedly starting to ring up her purchases. 

In the few seconds that takes him, he thinks up a dozen different conversation starters and deploys exactly none of them. Oh well. Once again this week he’ll satisfy himself with reading her the amount due (he once stumbled over saying “That’ll be €3.60,” and since then has made sure to psych himself up for it beforehand).

But then he remembers his surprise — it feels so silly now, so ridiculous an idea — and freezes a moment, then crouches a little to retrieve the paper bag from behind the counter, and slip it into her package.

“Complimentary mooncake,” he manages, glancing up at her and glancing back down before she can meet his eyes again. “For the festive season.”

“Oh!” the girl exclaims softly. She fiddles with the hem of her hoodie. “There wasn’t a sign in the window or anything. You should advertise the promotion more, maybe.”

“Yeah,” Adrien stammers. “I’ll be sure to... do that?”

He trails off, astonished as she leans forward over the counter and peers at the mooncake. The paper bag crinkles as she does, and he snatches back his hand but her fingers, cold from the weather outside, brush it briefly anyway.

“That’s a pretty flower, nice!” she comments, before leaning back and fishing her wallet out of a little pouch slung at her side. She doesn’t seem to notice that the flower on the mooncake matches those on her bag, but maybe she will later. Agh, or maybe it’s best she doesn’t. Oh, why did he ever think this was a good idea? At best, he’s going to be in agony all week till she comes back and makes an innocuous, appreciative statement about it that will leave him stumbling over his words. At worst, she’ll think it’s weird and creepy or just — whatever, actually. After all, mooncakes made with a flower mold do not generally come across as declarations of love. 

“I’ll see you next week?” the girl says hesitantly, passing him her payment for the pastries.

That makes it sound almost like they’ve got a standing arrangement. He thrills silently at that for a moment. “Yeah,” he says again, opening the register.

She nods at him, demure and sweeter than marzipan, and without breaking eye contact, picks up her package—

—and promptly drops it.

“I’m so sorry!” she yelps, stepping over the carnage of pastry. The bag has split dramatically, spilling its contents all the floor. Most of the soft buns have survived the fall, although of course they’re dirty now — but her cookies are toast (heh) and the mooncake... 

It’s absolutely smashed, the flower motif crushed on one side practically beyond recognition. Crumbs and whole chunks have broken off of the surface, and the filling is visible. He knew he should have gotten one of those industry standard boxes for it, the ones with plastic molded to the shape of the mooncake so it doesn’t easily move and get destroyed. But they’re a small-time family business, the quality of their goods notwithstanding, and they don’t have the kind of capital to make a bulk order worth it.

“I’m so clumsy I can’t even believe myself, here, let me help you clean up,” the girl is rambling rapid-fire. He’s come around the counter and stands there mere inches from where she’s having almost a meltdown over some silly pastries. Of course, he does the gentlemanly thing. He touches her shoulder and pats it comfortingly.

“No worries,” he assures her, smiling even though he _is_ somewhat disappointed. “I’ll get this sorted after I get you fresh pastries to replace these.” 

“Oh no, that’s alright,” she squeaks. 

But he’s already scurrying off to do it, his earnestness at least in part stemming from his belated mental freak-out that he just _touched her shoulder_. “Wait here, m’lady.” 

Where did that cocky, almost flirtatious tone of voice come from? Adrien fumes silently at his own out-of-control mouth as he goes around picking another set of the same items she chose at first. She’s going to think he’s weird, or maybe she really is a celebrity and he’s just cast himself as yet another starstruck member of the public.

He throws in some lemon meringues too. She seems the type to like them.

It’s a bad habit of his, this mental taxonomy of people based on their preferred pastries. He can’t quite kick it, especially around her. She’s the puzzle he wants to regard for ages, turn around in his palm and wonder at.

“Tell you what, we’re fresh out of mooncakes, so I’ll get you another one next week,” he suggests, returning to the counter and setting down the new package, which he doesn’t miss her eyeing in an endearingly wary way. 

He’ll be optimistic about this. It’ll be a good opportunity to improve on his recipe and technique. He could make it even better.

“That’s fine,” she says, “I mean, I ruined the first one. Don’t, uh. Don’t risk the wellbeing of another unsuspecting mooncake.”

“Well, then, maybe I’ll just have to escort the mooncake home with you,” he replies.

  
_What_ is he even saying right now? 

“Or. Or wherever else you go. I don’t know,” he tags on desperately, cringing more with every extra word that escapes him. 

Again, mercifully, she doesn’t seem to have noticed the momentary weirdness. Instead her brow is furrowed, like something else is bothering her. “It’s still early in the day, how are you already out of complimentary mooncakes?”

Every mental process basically stutters to a halt. “Um. Well.”

She’s squinting her eyes at him now, cocking her head to one side in a way that shouldn’t be as adorable as it is. “Mr. Agreste,” she says slowly, giving him a minor shock that she knows her name until he remembers that the bakery is, after all, named after his family, “I’m going to go out on a limb here, but something tells me my hunch is right… was that mooncake the only one you had?”

He can’t look at her, but he mutters in something approaching abject misery, “Yes.” Then he adds, “And you can just call me Adrien.”

That gives her pause for a moment, but then she presses on with his first name and even that sends a thrill through him. “ _Adrien_ , did you bake that mooncake specially for someone?” 

“…Yes.” 

Maybe the embarrassment would cease if he could smash himself into the ground like a pastry. 

But she’s not done with him yet. Taking a deep breath, she holds up a tiny slip of waxed paper that, clearly, was exposed when the mooncake got smashed. She must have been staring at the ground waiting while he went around collecting pastries for her, and seen it.

In Chinese history, mooncakes were once used to transmit coded messages across enemy lines and the like. He debated writing her a poem, maybe in French, maybe in Chinese, maybe in English, but finally just drew a little heart in red food colouring. _Je t’aime. 我爱你。I love you._

Quietly, she asks her final question. “Was that someone Marinette Dupain-Cheng?”

In a fairytale scenario, this is where he would say “Yes,” a third time and they would kiss in the middle of the bakery. A band might start up in the background at some point. The lighting would be gorgeous instead of rather insipid. There wouldn’t be snowmelt in her hair and flour in his. But he doesn’t do any of that.

“Depends,” he answers lightly, shrugging.

“On what?” She sounds startled and quizzical now.

Giving a wry smile, he drags his gaze off the ground to meet hers. The suspense holds.

“Is that your name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s be honest, Adrien is the sort of romantic dork to do an elaborate mooncake-Valentine thing without even knowing the girl’s name.
> 
> If my other ideas for this prompt work out, they’ll be less literal messages :P


	6. bring a kite in the snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to back battle couple Ladynoir, zombie apocalypse AU! Fill for joybirds' prompt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from After Rain by Dermot Kennedy. Fill for [joybirds](joybirds.tumblr.com)' prompt "zombie apocalypse: they both end up hiding from the zombie hordes in the same tree"!

In gym class, she never could dribble a basketball or do anything requiring more than very basic motor skills and coordination, but here, now, it’s all different. Her boots are scuffed with dirt and, to be honest, a little bit of gore jammed into the creases and prevented from flaking off. She’s limping, she hurt her leg a while back taking down a nest all by herself, but it looks more like a swagger than evidence of weakness.

Not that the zombies particularly notice things like that. But it makes her feel cool even though all she’s doing at the moment is walking through old territory and kicking a bit of gravel that she fished out from amid the tall grass. She’ll take it with her as long as the whim lasts.

She _could_ circle back and pillage some more buildings for resources. But she doesn’t really feel like it. It’s been a long day.

“You look like you could use a medic, m’lady.”

“A bandage would be helpful, yeah,” she agrees, whirling around deftly. Her companion is leaning up against a tree, watching her. His dirty blonde hair is spiky and hangs low over his eyes, but she manages to glimpse the shocking green of his irises. 

“Is that you asking nicely, L-squared?” he asks, but he’s already given her one, which she bends to apply.

Marinette pulls a face and bites her lip.

“It’s ‘LadyLuck’,” she corrects him tersely.

His voice takes on a dramatic tone. “It’s the end of the world here. Post-zombie invasion, apocalyptic feel, not a superhero story.” He pushes off from the tree and approaches her, teasing, “Gosh, get your genres right.”

He’s smirking right up in her face so she takes a step back, but immediately regrets it and nudges herself forward again. “Well, you’re one to talk. Ruining my immersive experience here.” 

“Oh, so when you want to indulge in some escapism, you come to an MMO about surviving in a zombie-infested wasteland?”

Marinette stares at the screen, then picks up her drink and sips at it. Mm. Hot chocolate. Perfect for a rainy, lazy holiday spent videogaming. She adjusts her headset so that the microphone is closer to her face. She wants this guy to hear her breathing down his neck. Figuratively, that is.

Toggling with her controller so she simultaneously walks off in the game world, she replies, “In my defense, this game _does_ have that unique mechanic that places you on a server alone with only a few other players at once. Just my _luck_ that I met you.” 

She grins, smugly noting that he’s following her. She continues to kick along that bit of gravel she found. They’ve added the most random little features in the latest patch. Fellow geeks make the best developers.

Another source of smugness: she’s left him speechless, apparently. He’s just following along mutely.

“What about you, what brand of realism were you going for with a name like ‘notthecamembert’? Which I refuse to call you, by the way.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment longer, then with a crackle that makes her hiss because it’s so loud in her ear, he’s back, saying, “Hello? Hey. Yeah, my mic fizzled out. And camembert is disgusting. It deserves disparaging mention even at the end of the world.”

She misses kicking the pebble this time round and whirls around for it. This strange boy with an apparent aversion for soft, smelly cheeses swiftly nudges it from between her feet. The new feature is a little glitchy sometimes. 

“Why, thank you, kind sir, but it’s just a pebble,” Marinette says instinctually, then raises an eyebrow at herself. She must be catching on to his strange knight-like manner, what with the ‘m’lady’-ing her. She feels almost certain that he would bow if he had the mod installed for it.

(She does. Her old school friend Max wrote it with her, in fact.)

He stops short and his voice goes grave. “It’s a very important pebble,” he says. 

“Yeah, like how—?” She cuts herself off. The zombies for this area are respawning. She’s clocked enough hours in here to know the schedule. Quickly, she gestures him over to the tree, which she starts scaling quickly. She doesn’t want to pan the camera over to look, but he’s probably gotten the message and is following her lead.

It’s cheating, but she moves the microphone further away from her face again. If there’s too loud an input and the zombies are within range, any sound clues them in about your location.

Stage-whispering now, she says, “Do you have any range weapons?”

“No, I’m more of a sparring sort of guy,” he replies, pulling out a saber.

“Get your own tree, then,” she teases, and mimes kicking him out of this one before realising he can’t see her doing that. Then she takes in the sight of his weapon of choice and whistles lowly. “That must have cost you a bunch. I heard the stats aren’t worth it, though?”

Not that she’s expecting it from him, because he doesn’t seem at all as chauvinistic as some of the pigs she’s met here, but she’s glad that he doesn’t make any comment in surprised admiration that she, a _girl_ , knows her in-game weapons well enough to not only identify them by the graphics alone, but also immediately recall how good they are. Instead he just says, in a way that she imagines is accompanied by a shrug, “I just really like fencing. Oh! There’s one now.”

Marinette calls up her weapons menu and scrolls through some of her favourites. She’s got a plank, some reinforced pipes, some Molotovs but she doesn’t want to waste one on just one zombie, and—

—a pebble.

“Did you know that apprently, if you’re kicking a pebble when you start climbing a tree, you take the pebble with you?” she whispers at him, selecting the pebble from the menu. She sees her character toss and catch it a few times. It’s the animation that happens when something can be thrown.

“So it’s not a completely random feature,” he breathes, and starts giggling. “Oh, that’s delightful. But the stats have got to be terrible on that too, right?”

She checks. 

“9% chance of it knocking out a zombie, 26% chance the zombie gets infuriated and faster, and 65% chance it is alerted to where you are and comes after you.” 

He cracks his knuckles over the microphone. “Well, you _are_  luck personified. I just wanna say, m’lady, if we don’t make it through this… _it’s been an honour._ ” 

“You are waaay too into this. And melodramatic.” 

With that, she hurls the pebble at the zombie — and it promptly collapses.

“OH MY GOODNESS,” he yells at her over the microphone. “NICE SHOT.” He drops down out of the tree to walk around the zombie’s fallen form and maybe to casually hit its head a couple more times with a bō staff that he pulls out of his pack. Just for good measure, of course.

“You know, you’ve probably just told the rest of the horde where we are,” she calls down from her branch. 

She watches him wheel around. “Um, yeah, maybe,” he says nervously. “Little help down here.”

Sighing dramatically, she says, “Aww, do I have to rescue you?” and drops down to the ground by him. She maneuvers her character so that she’s standing back to back with him. There are zombies approaching on all sides of them.

“Nice to meet you, by the way,” she comments, real casual as the first wave hits them and they spring into action. “After we’re done fighting zombies, maybe we could get coffee.”

He chuckles lowly. It’s breathy in her ear. “You’re on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry if you wanted an actual zombie apocalypse AU, joybirds, but I didn’t want to doom them to a brief life of clinging on to survival together D: This was my compromise considering that they play video games in canon.
> 
> No idea if there’s such a game as I’ve imagined here, is there?


	7. like a lion you ran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max/Kim (do they have a ship name yet?), new colleagues. Prompt from [Boston](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Boston/pseuds/Boston): "you're cute when you talk about stuff I have no idea about" (could be sports or academia) + any smooch (even a tiny peck) please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Everglow by Coldplay.

Max straightens his tucked-in shirt for the fifth time in as many minutes, even though no one else has arrived as punctually to the meeting. Which is to say that, surprise surprise, no one has shown up seventeen minutes early for an 8am meeting to discuss at length the newspaper’s increasingly grim prospects, what with the advent of social media making an amateur reporter of everyone in possession of a smartphone. But it’s his first day at this job, his first since graduating college with a degree in accounting, and what he doesn’t have in experience, he’s determined to make up for with earnestness and diligence. So he picks an imaginary speck of lint off his starched collar, considers for the umpteenth time whether the striped pattern of his tie is ill-advised, and settles in to wait.

Fourteen minutes to go, and the frosted glass door swings open with a quiet huff of air. Max leaps to his feet and starts to offer a handshake — and then takes in the appearance of his co-worker and stops mid-action.

He’s wearing a faded red polo incongruous with a pair of slightly more formal dress pants. His muscles bulge in great healthy curves, stretching his clothes in choice places. Max has to tear his gaze from the young man’s toned thighs, and the slightly raised lines of his blood vessels running down his arms. Distantly the accountant recalls reading how low a percentage of body fat has to be reached in order for those to be seen. Numbers usually shape the world for him, but for once it’s not the numbers that preoccupy Max’s analytical mind. 

“Hi,” he says, just a bit too late for it to be natural. The single syllable is a far cry from the eloquent self-introduction he’s been practising in the mirror at home and under his breath on public transportation. He stumbles on, “My name’s Max. From, um, the actuarial department.”

His companion’s likeness to a gym teacher who’s had to reluctantly switch out shorts for office wear prompts Max to elaborate, “I... deal with numbers,” while picking up his trusty old Texas Instruments calculator. Max gives an awkward belated wave with it.

The other still hasn’t said a word. In fact he seems to have been rooted to the spot, holding the door ajar.

“I know what an actuary does,” he finally says without much inflection, and turns abruptly to close the glass door behind him. He doesn’t need to face away from Max to do it, but he does anyway. Great, his opening conversation at his new workplace and he’s already made a weird first impression.

“Kim,” the newcomer says, and when he moves further into the meeting room he does so in easy, confident strides. He reaches over to shake Max’s hand with a heartiness that might arise from genuine friendliness or as a side effect of being so muscled. Perhaps both. “Sports correspondent, but I helped old Damocles check his calculations nearing his retirement. Great guy, and brilliant too.” 

Max perks up at that. He hasn’t heard anything about his predecessor before now, and is thrilled to know more. Something else occurs to him first though. “How long have you been working here?” he asks, casting a quizzical look over Kim. They can’t be far apart age-wise, yet Kim has the demeanour of someone already pretty settled and comfortable in the company.

Kim shrugs. “Coming on two years now. Dropped out of college to be an athlete, then ligament damage ended my professional career. So, here I am.”

Two sentences to sum up what must have been months of both physical and psychological acclimatisation, recovery, and disappointment. Yet he’s let them slip so lightly out. Max raises an eyebrow at Kim’s forwardness at the same time Kim blinks, surprised at himself. 

Is this what frisson is? It’s too much of a cliché that the math whiz is socially clueless and can’t take emotional cues, but at least right now Max rather fits the stereotype. He’s left stunned, something like electricity buzzing gently in his veins from the moment of connection, of clarity. 

He investigates, but paranthetically, circumnavigating Kim’s revelation. “I’m not sure what that means, ligament damage,” Max says, even though he vaguely does. He straightens his papers idly.

Kim takes a seat two swivel chairs down from Max, on the same side of the broad table. “It means one of the strips of connective tissue between two bones in a joint — in this case, my right knee — got partially ruptured. I tried to get back to form. Never quite the same.”

Max hums in sympathy, nervously adjusting his papers again. The corners don’t quite line up and that bothers him. “Anterior Cruciate Ligament injury? It’s pretty common for your age group. 1 in 1,750 persons aged between 15 and 45.”

He pauses a moment, wondering if he should elaborate, but then decides he can’t possibly mislead Kim on first meeting. “Of course, that sort of statistic is bound to be questionable. It’s a wide enough age range that most athletes fall under it, for one, so the sample is hardly representative. Moreover, I came across it in some health magazine at the dentist, and they aren’t very rigorous about reporting their confidence intervals, and… and I’m going to stop talking now.”

He falls silent. He’s said enough. After a moment he registers Kim’s gaze on him and glances up to see the other young man heavy-lidded and thoughtful. Kim doesn’t look away, even when Max clears his throat awkwardly. 

“How is it you aren’t sure what ligament damage is, but can rattle off that kind of statistic by heart?”

His lips twist in annoyance and he reflexively leaves off fussing with his papers, or adjusting his thick black glasses. “I have a good memory for numbers,” Max answers, now a little stiffly. He’s aware, always, of how he looks, this nerdy kid who tries too hard and wears checkered shirts with the collars buttoned right up. At school, jocks like Kim would’ve bullied him, copied homework off the likes of him. 

He’s taken offence, and he wants Kim to know it so he’ll back off, but when Kim speaks next it’s not callous or jeering. “You have an _amazing_ memory for numbers,” he praises. It prompts Max to mentally replay the last lines of their exchange and realise that far from sounding mean, Kim’s voice is full of wonder and admiration.

Max glances up at that, brow furrowing slightly in pleased confusion.

“Could I see your work?” Kim asks next, gesturing to Max’s pile of papers. “I mean, I could wait till you present it later, but I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes. More of a visual kind of guy.”

Max forcibly restrains himself from blurting out the suggestive line that springs to mind unbidden at those words, nudges the stack of calculations over, and proceeds to stare fixedly at Kim’s strong fingers, flicking slowly through Excel spreadsheets and pages of working and rationalisations and assumptions. He’s expecting questions, the kind of deflating, self-deprecatory comments (“I give up, this stuff is beyond me”) that both flatter him and fail to actually appreciate his mathematical prowess and technique. The kind he’s gotten for years from both family and well-meaning friends.

But Kim just sorts through the stack, nodding every now and then, before pushing it back to Max across the smooth table. Then he looks him straight in the eye and proceeds to verbally outline the foundations of an algorithm that will more accurately track, then model, the indexed growth of various social media sites.

Alright. Max might be a little bit in love.

He’s got to keep his cool though. Oh gosh, but Kim is easily, casually nudging his papers so that the corners line up. How did he get that to happen? What is he even saying right now? Max can barely register his words, he’s too busy freaking out internally.

Kim’s stopped and is looking at him expectantly for an answer.

“I’m sorry, what?” Max says, slightly breathless. 

Kim looks mildly crestfallen. “It was just a thought,” he says, pulling his hand away from the stack of papers. “You’ve got this handled, I’m sure, I mean it’s your first day and you already did all this work on your own initiative…” 

“No,” Max stops him, and it takes him a moment to realise he’s simultaneously reached out to physically stop Kim. There is a delicious warmth between their hands. He glances compulsively at his wristwatch. There are seven minutes to go till the start of the meeting. He keeps his hand there.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Max says, voice suddenly conspiratorial. He leans in closer and stage whispers, “I’m terrible with my algorithms, I lied about that on my resumé. I could use any and all help.”

Just like that, Kim’s back to beaming at him, chuckling at the same time. Max joins in too, relieved at having defused the momentary tension.

“Can I let you in on a secret?” Kim says, and gestures Max to lean forward so his mouth is right at his ear. Max blushes at the hot breath against his skin.

Kim says, “You’re cute when you talk about stuff I have no idea about.”

Max blushes impossibly harder. 

And that’s when the rest of their co-workers start flooding in, and Kim pulls casually away, confident and smug and infuriating. Max has to sit there and talk about subscription rates and time scale models with Kim’s gaze appraising him constantly.

At the end of the seemingly interminable meeting, Kim lingers conspicuously while Max packs away his work and is commended and welcomed to the team by their boss. When they’re the only ones left in the room again, Max beckons him closer and deploys the line he’s been practising in his head for the last twenty minutes.

“I’d like to hear you talk about stuff I have no idea about too,” he says, and as he’s pulling away gives Kim a quick peck on the cheek. He surprises himself with his own daring, but it’s all the release he’s going to get after an hour and a half of Kim watching him from across the table. 

He leaves him standing there, clearly stunned. Max chuckles and hugs his laptop bag close to him as he pushes the conference room door open. This new job thing is turning out great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Statistic from [here](http://orthosurg.ucsf.edu/patient-care/divisions/sports-medicine/conditions/knee/anterior-cruciate-ligament-injury-acl/).
> 
> First time writing these two at length! I confess I cheated a bit by channelling Spencer Reid for Max :P And maybe Derek Morgan for Kim. My math is also kind of pathetic, which is 70% of the reason Max zones out as Kim is talking — the other 30% being that he is just a teensy bit smitten.
> 
> I purposely wanted to reverse the prompt from what you'd expect, hope that's cool with y'all.


	8. may you blossom (like a flower)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrinette kidfic, second fill for [matchaball](http://archiveofourown.org/users/matchaball/pseuds/matchaball)'s prompt “coded messages”. Marinette has a secret language of sorts with the sweet boy who’s just moved in next door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Blossom by Noah Gunderson, which was the mood music for my first fill, in chapter 5. The next line is “may you go dancing in the end” which I keep mishearing as “may you go dancing in the air”, and the chorus starts with an absolutely _melting_ delivery of the lyric “oh, you hold my heart forever”.
> 
> The alternative idea for this chapter was prodigy!Marinette playing her favourite songs across Adrien’s skin because they can’t afford a proper piano :O

They unload the boxes from the car in companionable silence. Which is to say that Gabriel moves their belongings into the living room, helpless to prevent the pinched adult tension in his face, while Adrien potters around the sidewalk, poking at weeds and picking up fallen leaves to show to his father. Gabriel nods approvingly and suggests finding a nice windowsill on which to store these newly found treasures.

It hasn’t been easy for the Agrestes since the death of Adrien’s mother. Adrien wouldn’t talk for days after the news, and though he does now, he’s never recovered the rambunctiousness of those halcyon days. Gabriel’s fashion line, once flourishing, has been steadily in decline following the loss of his muse. They’ve had to uproot themselves again and again, moving into smaller and more humble housing each time. And his son has been a real trooper about it, never complaining about his new bedroom being drafty or dingy, quietly submitting to ad hoc babysitters while Gabriel went out to present his portfolios to bigger companies in the half-dreaded hope that they might acquire his failing one. But every once in a while he’ll go to wake Adrien up in the morning and ask him what he wants for breakfast, and the six-year-old will sleepily request pancakes, his mother’s special recipe, and Gabriel has to stand there, back turned to where Adrien is groggily brushing his teeth at the sink, so that he doesn’t have to see his father crying.

He checks the time on his watch. Past lunch hour by far. Lingering at the car door, Gabriel looks guiltily down at Adrien, plopped contentedly on the pavement, with one finger extended so that a butterfly can land on it and flutter its wings in greeting. Travelling is always tiring, even though Adrien napped in the backseat for most of the way, and he feels bad about having to drag him down to the shops to pick up something to eat. How could he have forgotten mealtime in the first place? Gabriel frequently works himself ragged chasing short-term jobs for which he’s overqualified by far, but Adrien should never be subjected to such torments. There was simply too much else to worry about today, though, so lunch took a backseat to all the other logistics of moving house.

Just as he’s about to reluctantly rouse Adrien, a bell tinkles and when he whirls around to face the source of the sound, he sees the front door of the neighbouring bakery open. It’s a shophouse, just as Gabriel hopes to make their new place, by renting the floor space below their apartment so he can set up a small studio and maybe put out some bespoke work. Emerging from the door are a middle-aged lady and her daughter, who looks to be around Adrien’s age, and is tottering adorably under the weight of a loaded tray of little pies and quiches, plus a stack of freshly baked brownies among other miscellaneous items. Her mother bends almost double to keep a steadying hand at one corner of the tray, but the self-satisfied look on the child’s face shows that she nevertheless believes she’s managing the weight of the baked treats all by herself.

“Hi!” the woman says brightly, wiping some flour off her fingers and onto her apron, which has little strawberries embroidered into the front. “You must be our new neighbours. Little Mari here noticed you hard at work over lunchtime, so we thought a little food might be welcome.”

She ruffles her daughter’s hair and the tiny girl with eyes bluer than the sky smiles guilelessly up at them. It makes Gabriel’s breath catch in his throat momentarily. In the months since his wife’s death it hasn’t been uncommon for him to see things that remind him of her, but it still sends a jolt through his system to see her smile in the face of this small child. There’s something just a little vacant and unfocused in that expression, that makes her look ethereal and fleeting in the afternoon sunlight. Ephemeral as the woman he once fell in love with, on a hot summer’s day just like this one.

Adrien has noticed the similarity too. As Gabriel watches, his son clambers slowly to his feet, eyes wide at Mari. He clutches the back of Gabriel’s pants leg. His little butterfly friend alights from his finger and circles him for a few seconds before flitting across to Mari and landing on her shoulder. The little girl smiles and almost loses control of her tray trying to peer at her new companion. Her mother immediately steadies her. 

“Thank you so much for thinking of us, it’s very kind of you,” Gabriel says belatedly, and the woman looks up from where she’s also watching the tacit exchange. “How should I address you…?”

“Sabine,” she replies, and bops her daughter’s head to prompt her to introduce herself. When the child doesn’t, Sabine says as though she meant to all along, “And this is Marinette. Where can she set this down?”

“With my hidden treasure!” Adrien pipes up. Marinette’s large eyes are drawn to him as he steps out from where he’s been hiding behind Gabriel’s legs, and takes over from Sabine the job of stabilising the tray. He smiles at her from across the pile of treats.

“We don’t have much set up yet, but you can come on in,” Gabriel says, beckoning their new neighbours to join them in their new apartment. He and Sabine follow behind their tottering children, who have several close calls on the stairs but make it up without major incident.

“What line of work are you in?” Sabine asks after they are settled in, sitting on the bare floor and each nursing a pastry. 

Gabriel watches Adrien cupping his hands to catch some crumbs from Marinette’s fig roll before replying, “I’m a fashion designer,” with a smile. He nods in the direction of his son. “Adrien models for me sometimes. Saves on hiring a professional child model, and it keeps him interested in his dad’s work, you know?”

Sabine nods in understanding and takes a bite of her mini quiche. “Mari likes to watch Tom when he gets out the big rolling pin. Sometimes he doesn’t even need to, but he does anyway. Just for her.”

Tom — Marinette’s father, he gathers. This is the point where she could easily ask about Adrien’s mother, but instead she looks askance, over to the sunlit windowsill. There’s an openness to her expression that doesn’t quite invite his own questions, but also doesn’t preclude them. In a flash of insight Gabriel sees that this is also the point where he could ask about Marinette’s strange silence, which is only accentuated by contrast with Adrien.

Instead he follows her gaze, over to where their children are apparently rapidly on the way to becoming playmates. Marinette has finished her fig roll and Adrien is absently letting his pain au chocolat sit off to one side as he chatters about some of his morning’s findings. When Marinette cautiously extends a hand for the variegated leaf he’s showing her, he drops it onto her palm and lets her rub at the raised veins on its underside.

“She seems to like him,” Sabine says. 

Carefully, Marinette replaces the leaf, now somewhat crumpled, on the windowsill. She fiddles a little with how the rest have been arranged. It all looks pretty haphazard, at least from the distance of one living room and a good few years between childhood and adulthood, but Adrien stills and watches her movements for a while.

Even after he started talking again, it used to scare Gabriel when his son did that. He’s since realised it just means he’s focusing hard on something, usually a wordsearch puzzle in the newspaper or a joke in the comic strips that he’s trying to understand. But it’s still just slightly unnerving.

“He’s a precocious one, isn’t he,” Sabine comments, and Gabriel hums in assent. He doesn’t trust his voice not to come out bitter in the air, not to break and reveal the gamut of experiences that have made Adrien the thoughtful, considerate boy he is today.

There’s a sadness and depth he tries not to see in his son’s eyes. He’s not sure some days how much of it is reflected from his own. 

The platter of food is all crumbs now. Marinette has selected another leaf to examine the texture of, her touch alternately light and clumsy as her attention wavers. Finally she scoots closer to Adrien, who blinks and makes room for her legs.

It’s enough of a welcome, apparently. Staring at the floor, Marinette holds out the leaf over Adrien’s lap, on which his hands rest. He moves his hand so it’s palm up, but instead of dropping the leaf onto it she sets it onto a specific spot on the floor, just where she was looking, and reaches forward to tap on Adrien’s palm. 

It takes her a while, in fits and stops, but finally she sits back in satisfaction and moves her gaze off the floor and onto Adrien, who nods and smiles again.

“Thank you again for this,” Gabriel murmurs. Sabine says, “No, thank _you_.” 

(He starts work on a new portfolio of designs for children’s clothing the very next day, inspired like he hasn’t been since his wife passed on. The fabrics are soft like the afternoon sunlight coming in through the window that day, and the patterns are all polka dots and little green leaves stitched into the hems.

Marinette is a little behind schedule but when she learns to communicate in words she gets Adrien to understand that she’s been tapping out her favourite prime numbers on his palm since the fateful day they met. At least, that’s what Adrien tells him one night after coming home from their fortnightly dinner over at the Dupain-Cheng’s. No one else has ever been quite able to understand their tacit, secret language.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Marinette is somewhere on the autism spectrum. No, I am not trying to romanticise that. The disclaimer hopefully isn’t necessary but I’m covering my bases.
> 
> The Gabriel POV just started happening, oops. I do like that it allowed me to explore the Marinette-has-muse!Mamagreste's-smile thing, though.
> 
> I’ve now cheated twice on [matchaball](http://archiveofourown.org/users/matchaball/pseuds/matchaball)’s prompt, because the first fill was the first time they spoke, but technically not their first meeting, and this second fill looks forward _beyond_ their first meeting. I’d claim artistic license à la “the prompt ‘coded messages’ made me want to explore plurality and scope in their dynamic” but really it was subconscious.


	9. make the edges less sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double-date DJWifi and Adrinette ice skating rink AU! Swapped best friends, then swapped skating partners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from This Is Why I Need You by Jesse Ruben.
> 
> Disclaimer that I am but a humble inline skater who just tried out ice skating recently. Please point out any inaccuracies so I can correct them!

“Can we take a break?” Adrien asks sheepishly, tucking his feet in closer to his chest. His mouth is dry from laughing in the cold air of the rink, and he can feel the ice melting and soaking into the seat of his pants. “We must’ve been at this for like an hour already.” 

He peers up to where his best friend Alya is standing over him, hands on her hips and a good-natured but nevertheless teasing grin on her face. “It’s been all of twenty minutes,” she tells him sympathetically, and offers him a gloved hand up.

“Same difference,” he complains, letting himself be hauled to his feet after his fourth fall. Alya’s comfortable and stable enough on ice skates that she shows no sign of wobbling as she instantaneously compensates to keep him steady.

Halfway upright, his feet suddenly fly out from underneath him again, and he clings onto her for dear life. “Why would you _do_ this to yourself?” he screeches, even as she starts chuckling at his melodramatics. “Are you actually a unicorn from Rispa? You’re so balanced, I’m not fully convinced that you actually exist on this material plane. _Does gravity not apply to you?_ ” 

“Oh _man_ , I wish I had a camera right now,” Alya manages to choke out between successive peals of laughter. “People would pay good money to see Adrien Agreste, teenage heartthrob and golden boy of the Parisian fashion scene, reaching new heights of — what was the tagline from that fancy watch campaign you did — ‘poise and elegance’?” 

She grips his forearms tightly. “Plant your feet shoulder-width apart, remember? Bend your knees, it’ll keep your centre of gravity low. Come on, you’re supposed to be the physics whiz, blondie.” 

“Universal mechanics are rendered void once you pull on ice skates,” Adrien replies, doing as instructed. When he’s finally mostly secure, he dares to look up and meet her gaze. Utterly deadpanning, he says, “So poise. Many elegance.” 

“ _Wow_ ,” Alya ironically cuts him off before he can reach the concluding punchline. “I don’t know what’s worse, your outdated knowledge of internet memes or the fact that I’m amused anyway.” 

Adrien responds by batting his eyelashes at her. “I try,” he says with exaggerated false modesty.

“Well if you _try_ basic stride again, I’ll get my mum to let you have first dibs on today’s lunch dessert special. The famous Le Grand Paris vanilla bean crème brûlée.” Alya waggles her eyebrows at him suggestively. Even Chloë, their friend and daughter of the hotel owner André Bourgeois, doesn’t get such a privilege normally. Oh, the perks of knowing the head chef personally! 

“You’re evil,” Adrien says without heat, and releasing his unconscious death grip on the side of the rink, pushes off tentatively so that he glides abortively forward.

“And again,” Alya prompts, to which he rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, yeah.” 

There are many other people out on the ice today. A lot of the beginners stick to the sides so that they can grab hold of the partition that borders the ring to stay upright. Upon reaching the rink, Adrien’s analytical mind automatically deduced the direct proportion between one’s distance from the sides and one’s skill level. By that equation, Alya undoubtedly belongs in the centre of the rink, perfecting her backwards crossover, or whatever it’s called. The only reason she isn’t there now is that she wants to teach Adrien some fundamentals before going, and furthermore the sheer number of people on the ice precludes for now her tendency to skate at devilishly high speeds. They should thin out in a bit for lunch hour.

Despite having pretty much grown up with her and known her for years, Adrien’s never really found out about this hobby of hers. Until today, at least. He can pretty much feel the bruising starting to form on his posterior. 

“If you keep staring at your feet so intently you’re going to put off your balance,” Alya cautions helpfully, easily gliding backward on one skate to one side of him. “You can concentrate on what your feet are doing without bending forward to look at them. Go on, eyes up.”

So he looks up, and it does feel better already, this easy forward gliding. He sees skaters at all levels of proficiency, some even less certain than he is, some pros racing each other and taking the corners at alarmingly high speeds and pulling off downright epic slides that send showers of shaved ice skidding across the smooth surface.

And right there, in the middle of the rink, he sees a dark-haired girl in a fitting white t-shirt and black pants with a ribbon of pink hugging one of the legs, graceful and light on gorgeous skates that even in his cluelessness he can see are custom boots, white and neatly laced up. They are Cinderella-perfect for her, and she moves like a princess. Even as he watches, mouth falling open slightly in awe, she brings down her toe pick, spins fluid and effortless into the air, and lands again apparently flawlessly, curving a beautiful arc into the ice.

He’s about 120% certain that the jump is a lot more impressive and technically challenging than he can tell with his untrained eyes, but he’s staring anyway, skates stilling and everything else stuttering to a halt around this one focal point, this one fairy-like girl who flits across the ice like flight and freedom itself. She allows herself a small, satisfied smile, pumping a fist close to her chest as she executes a playful spin to come to a halt.

Skating up somewhat stiffly and uncertainly to congratulate her is a boy in a blue shirt with a strange sci-fi looking logo on it, who takes off his red cap to her and claps it onto her head. It catches on her loosely bunned hair, and when she laughingly returns the cap to him, her scrunchie comes undone and her raven locks go falling to her shoulders, feathery and soft-looking. 

Nino bends to retrieve the scrunchie and promptly falls down. Laughingly, Marinette helps him back up, before picking up the accessory herself.

“Adrien,” comes Alya’s smug voice through his reverie, “you’re practically drooling.”

“Who is that?” he manages, reluctantly pulling his eyes away from her and back onto his redhead companion.

Alya’s expression only grows more smug. “That’s Marinette, and while everybody here at the rink knows her triple lutz is a sight to see, I’m pretty sure that’s not the only thing you’re noticing.” 

Adrien just keeps staring, watching the glint of her blades reflecting the bright light, the way she rubs her hands together for warmth and puffs a warm breath onto her fingertips. When she pulls them away from her face he realises she was inadvertently hiding a smile — and that she’s looking right at him.

“Come on, Nino,” Marinette says, reaching out a hand to her friend, who gratefully takes it and with her help skates forward, in their direction.

“Hey girl,” Alya greets her fellow skater. “I saw that triple lutz, you’ve got it _down_  for regionals.”

Marinette smiles and nods graciously to accept the compliment; it lights up her whole face. But she’s shy and suddenly modest as she looks down and shuffles her skates. There’s a brief moment in which Adrien sees it all in perfect clarity: Alya’s appraising gaze giving Nino a once-over, Nino watching him with the nascent solidarity that is established once you encounter someone equally incompetent on ice, and then Marinette looking up at him, eyes blue and brilliant.

She knew he was watching as she made that jump, Adrien realises. He knows that for a fact the same way he knows how he must have looked, just one of many admiring expressions in the rink, wide eyed and enchanted.

And yet she noticed him. Oh no, now would not be the time to fall on his butt again. He’s not even holding onto Alya, how is he going to manage to keep his dignity? The more he thinks about it, the less stable his skates feel under him. He tries bending his knees. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, possibly because his legs have quite literally gone weak and fluttery at the sight of her, and at the proximity of her to him now.

As if in slow motion he sees Marinette reach out a hand to steady him. Her fingers are warm after all, and circle his wrist in a way that is somehow familiar. Which is ridiculous because they’ve never met before. And if he ever tells Alya she’ll call him the hugest sap ever (she would be right), but when Marinette touches him it feels like they are two puzzle pieces meeting, perfectly complementary.

“Steady on,” Marinette says, with an undercurrent of bemusement to her tone. “Is this your first time on ice?”

“Yeah,” he replies. It comes out sort of strangled sounding. “You — you’re _amazing_.” Adrien just about restrains himself from asking if she’s a unicorn too.

“Thank you,” she says, ducking her head. “You saw one of my better attempts, though. Sometimes I mess up my edges on the take-off and it’s just a flutz. And then there’s my _landings_.” She shakes her head at the memory.

“A flutz is, uh. That’s a lutz that’s like a flip. I think,” Nino supplies, wobbling over to Adrien’s side to clap a hand on his shoulder. The friendly greeting almost sends them both to the ground; indeed it would have, if not for Alya and Marinette’s quick intervention.

“Better a flutz than a klutz,” Adrien jokes, even as he recovers his balance. 

Marinette bursts into an explosive giggle. With a wondering expression, Alya looks at her, and then at Adrien, and then at her again. 

“Hey, Nino, right? I’ve seen you around in the viewing gallery before,” Alya says slowly, flicking her gaze over to the boy. “You ever wanted to speed skate?”

All the humour abruptly falls out of Nino’s expression, and most of the blood seems to drain out with it. He visibly gulps. “That would be awesome,” he says, “if I could do it without crashing to my _icy death_.” 

Alya holds out both her hands to him. “Let’s do it,” she says, the words like a challenge and a flirtation all in one. Adrien has never understood how she got to be so charming and confident. It clearly has not rubbed off on him.

When Nino hesitatingly takes her hands, glancing at Marinette as if for assurance that her friend is actually sane (Marinette shrugs; the jury’s still out on that), Alya starts skating backward, pulling Nino along with her. Even travelling that way and glancing over her shoulder to make sure they don’t ram into any other skaters, Alya rapidly accelerates, and the two go zipping around the bend, outstripping most every other person left now on the ice. By the time they reach the far side of the rink Nino starts laughing hysterically, but Adrien can see him smiling and nodding when Alya presumably asks something to the effect of whether he’s enjoying himself. 

“Alya’s never mentioned you,” Marinette says mildly, also watching their best friends’ speedy circuit.

Adrien flushes. He can’t imagine why Alya would have anyway, and feels a rush of relief that she hasn’t. Somehow he doesn’t want Marinette to have been introduced to him the way most people are: the pristine model in deluxe two-page magazine spreads, attending devoted photoshoots every other week despite still being in school. Just as he’s about to introduce himself, however, Alya and Nino come shooting by, their legs moving almost exactly in tandem. Nino appears to be silently screaming but also having the time of his life. Alya has switched it around so she’s also skating forward, but they’re still holding hands. Purportedly so she can help Nino maintain balance and weave between other skaters at such a high speed, of course. 

“Join us!” Alya yells, grinning. Nino gives a weak smile.

Adrien can’t help but smile at the sight. “Shall we?” he asks, turning to Marinette. “I’m even less confident on ice than Nino, though, so…” 

She doesn’t leave him wondering. Smiling reassuringly, she offers her hand, and he takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s a wrap, everyone! I know I promised there’d be 12 chapters, but I did also say I wouldn’t force it, and my writing was turning out listless and thin on my remaining ideas, so I decided to end on a strong note, and focus on other projects I have in mind.
> 
> You can find the only other complete (though unedited) draft [here](http://mimosaeyes.tumblr.com/post/145153889962/untitled-10th-chapter-to-oh-take-me-back-to-the), and my notes for the chapters that never were, [here](http://mimosaeyes.tumblr.com/post/145153892717/the-chapters-that-never-were). On your way out, if you could comment with your favourite meet cute, it’d mean a lot to me. Thanks for a great few months!


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